Wednesday morning weigh-ins are not without a ludicrous amount of choreography all in preparation for that moment of truth. A moment of accountability that I've written about here. The quasi-truth the scale reveals is a truth that never sets me free. I’m trying to value numbers less… from pounds to waist measurements to clothes sizes to calories… in my maintenance move towards a new normal. But in this post-weight loss skinnily ever after, numbers remain a secret concern.
I weigh myself once a week, instead of every day as I did at one point; I figure a week is a good enough chunk of time to not only make mistakes and see their consequences, but also to see the results of a week spent diligently damage-controlling or just working hard.
I weigh myself naked. I figure that’s the real me… that’s how much I weigh… I don’t want to know me + clothing, me + shoes. I weigh myself bare foot. No matter how attached I am to those nikes, they are not an actual extension of my being. I weigh myself hungry. I confess that’s some stupid logic, but I never claimed to be rational. I weigh myself first thing in the morning, before I’ve ingested so much as half a crumb or a driplet of water. I weigh myself after I’ve gone to the bathroom.
Extra. I know.
If once I step on the scale the number isn’t what I hoped for, I try again (I like to blame computer error before i consider what i know to be human error)... and again... and again. When third time is not a charm, I try moving the scale around in my bathroom… sometimes that changes the number, sometimes that doesn’t. Then after a few moments of denial, elation or straight-up indifference, the number sinks in and I accept it as my new reality and let it inspire the next seven days. It’s New Years in my bathroom every Wednesday morning! The world is mine (so is the gym), there’s nothing I can’t conquer… and I resolve to go get it.
Why Wednesday? It used to be Mondays, but I found myself over-forgiving of weekend weakness… which in any case never showed up as soon as Monday, but always reared its ugly head by Wednesday. A weekend weigh-in would kill the fun of weekend weakness or produce too much guilt, disgust, failure feeling and other such unproductive sentiments. But by Wednesday, I’m in a certain flow and feel fully equipped to accept the gravity of any number and to take things in my stride––run it out, run it off.
